"As soon as you realize everything's a joke, being the Comedian is the only thing that makes sense."--Alan Moore

Thursday, November 8, 2012

DIAL M.W. FOR MURDER Chapter Nine

A HOSEMASTER OF WINE™ PULP FICTION CLASSIC

Chapter 9Yeast the
Size of Nerf Balls

It had been a while since I’d last lost consciousness. I’d
forgotten how much I liked it. The way you wake up and your mouth feels like
you could dry Moscato in it and make Passito di Pantellaria. And how you also
Passito a little bit in your own Pantellarias. I think the last time I’d lost consciousness
was reading Lettie Teague. Which will teach me not to read the Wall Street
Journal in the car. Damned air bags save your life, but they smell like James
Suckling’s blow dryer. Funny how a nasty blow to the head makes your mind
wander. I was wondering what wine went with head trauma and wanted to call
Alice Feiring because I knew she’d know. Her work sounded like she had been
trying to find out through trial and error. Maybe a nice red blend of
Barbaresco and something from Croatia.
A nice, big CroBar. That’s what I’d been hit with, I thought. And why does it
take so long for wine to ferment? Wouldn’t you think it would just take three
or four days? Maybe we need bigger yeast. Like the size of Nerf balls. Though
it’s getting harder and harder to find Nerfs that will drop their pants. Whoa.
Who hit me?

It took me a few minutes to gather my thoughts. One of them
was way in the corner covered in dust. But I wasn’t surprised; I have a lot of
dirty thoughts. Mallory was gone. The look in her eyes right before somebody
did a punch down on my skull cap told me that she knew the person. It wasn’t
just fear on her face, but also recognition. Like when you see Silver Oak on a
wine list. My hunch was that whoever had cold-cocked me had also taken Mallory
O’Lactic. Or had she gone along voluntarily?

I used my desk to help raise myself from the floor, and,
there, right in the middle of my blotter, right next to my autographed picture
of Veuve Clicquot (“HoseMaster, You put the Yellow in my Yellow Label. Love,
Veuvie”), was Avril’s bracelet. Just to make sure it was Avril’s I checked for
the inscription I had had engraved in it. It was there alright. “Avril—Happy
Trails to You, Till We Meat Again.” Still made me tear up.

The bracelet left behind was clearly meant to deliver a
message. I was getting the bracelet back, but not Avril. At least, that’s what
they thought. Whoever they were.

A shadow appeared beneath my office door. Someone was
outside. After several minutes, there was a knock.

“Come in,” I quipped.

Biola Dynamic

She was a knockout. So I knew I was in trouble. Beautiful
babes bring trouble like Santa brings gifts, and Pancho Campo brings cash. You
think they’re going to be worth the trouble, but they never are. Like opening a
wine with a waxed capsule. Sure, you can get in, but when you pull out it’s a
big mess. But I had been having nothing but trouble since Chapter 1, so more
wasn’t going to make much difference.

“How can I help you?” I was looking her up and down, reading
her like a wine country map. I’d already figured out a few places where I
wanted to stop and taste.

“Are you the HoseMaster?” Even her voice was sexy. She had a
very slight lisp, so the “s” slipped out with just the slightest hiss, like
uncorking a great Champagne,
or when Tim Fish walks into a winery.

“I am. But I’ve just awakened from a blow to the head from
my previous visitor, so you’ll have to excuse me if I seem a bit dazed. Who are
you?”

“My name is Biola Dynamic.”

“So you’re a natural blonde.”

“Yeah. Look, HoseMaster, I don’t have a lot of time. There
are some men after me, bad men, men who want to hurt me. I need your help.”

“I’m sorry Ms. Dynamic, I don’t have the time right now.
I’ve got more problems than a one-armed sommelier with his corkscrew in the
wrong pocket. You know I knew a one-armed sommelier once. Lefty Zraly, M.U.
Bastards wouldn’t give him a W. Worked at Hemingway’s Bar and Grill. His
nickname was Farewell to Arm. Better than the ugly waiter, For Whom the Bell Troll. But I digress.
I’m pretty sure my girlfriend has been kidnapped, my last client was murdered,
and I just got a free concussion. I wish I could help, but…”

“Did you say sommelier? That’s why I’m here, in Healdsburg,
to study for my M.W. But everything’s gone wrong. Those people are evil,
HoseMaster. If they think you’re going to pass their exams on the first try,
they kill you! I know it sounds crazy, but it’s true. They’re the most powerful
people in the wine business, and the power has driven them insane. And if you
do pass the first level, somehow avoid being murdered beforehand, maybe because
you’re a gorgeous blonde and they think you’re stupid, then they want you to
kill for them. You have to help me. They want me to kill an M.W. candidate. And
if I don’t, they’ll kill me. Please, HoseMaster, I’ll do anything.”

I didn’t like where this was going. But I knew that somehow
it would lead to Avril Cadavril and Mallory O’Lactic and the stink at the
center of an M.W. I didn’t see that I had a choice.

“OK, Biola, I’ll help. Tell me who they want you to kill. We
have to warn him.”

Oh this is good, especially the 'lisp' part. But for some reason I keep thinking about Stan's sister (and her infamous lisp) on South Park.

“Are you the HoseMaster?” Even her voice was sexy. She had a very slight lisp, so the “s” slipped out with just the slightest hiss, like uncorking a great Champagne, or when Tim Fish walks into a winery.

Alfonso,A great suggestion! Nothing I can do that a dead dwarf can't do better.

I waited on Herve back in his Fantasy Island heyday. He frequented the restaurant, now gone, where I worked during and right after college. Miserable little man. And cheap. One Tattoo that was better off erased.

Lara,I have no idea where the lisp remark came from. Part of the joy of writing is the strange stuff that emerges from the subconscious. I have lots of that.

Puff Daddy,I think I liked this chapter the least, but, then, things just don't always click when you're just improvising the whole deal. However, I do like the idea of a one-armed sommelier. I may have to revisit that. Appeals to my Monty Python side.

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About Me

After 19 years as a Sommelier in Los Angeles, twice named Sommelier of the Year by the Southern California Restaurant Writers' Association, I moved to Sonoma County to explore the other aspects of the wine business. I've spent, OK wasted, 35 years learning about and teaching about and swallowing wine. I am also a judge at the Sonoma Harvest Fair, San Francisco Chronicle Wine Competition and the San Francisco International Wine Competition--so I can spit like a rabid llama. I know more about wine than David Sedaris and I'm funnier than James Laube. Stay tuned for an informed but jaded view of everything wine and everything else.
I'm living proof that alcohol kills brain cells.

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